


All There Is

by accidental



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:44:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidental/pseuds/accidental
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders spends what he expects to be his last night with Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All There Is

Lucas Hawke looks all wrong against the backdrop of the tiny clinic. He’s out of place; too big, too bright, too ridiculously handsome to belong in such a dingy little room.

He lights it up like sunshine.

After all these years, my stomach still does that funny little flippy thing when I see him.

"You're wrong," I tell him. "I haven't been avoiding you, Lucas."

I pull at my hair, winding my fingers in it. Nervous habit. It‘s one of the reasons my hair is always such a mess.

“I’ve just been... really busy.”

Even to me, it sounds pathetic.

“Oh, I know. Boils to lance, festering pustules to attend to…” He takes a step towards me, reaches out a hand, and for a second I think he’s going to touch my face. I tense up - I can’t help it., and I’m pretty sure he notices, because at the last moment his hand changes direction, lands awkwardly on my shoulder instead. He runs his fingers softly across the ragged feathers on my pauldrons, like he’s stroking them.

“I miss you, Anders. You never come home.” His voice is soft, and slightly unsteady.

I glance around at the dozens of sick and injured people waiting for my attention. There's always so much to do. It isn't really a lie.

I want to say “I miss you too.” I want to take his hand. Instead, I just brush my fingers lightly against his. I don’t trust myself enough to touch him more than that.  
“I’m sorry, love.” I sigh. “We’ll talk later, I promise.”  
“I’ll wait for you,” he insists. He sits down on one of the benches against the wall, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and almost immediately a ragged woman, bleeding from a dramatic looking head wound, stumbles past and vomits in a puddle at his feet, only just missing his expensive Antivan leather boots.

He’s not really dressed appropriately for Darktown. He never is.

“I won’t be finished till late,” I warn him, but he just shrugs, and I take the vomit woman’s arm and guide her towards a cot in the corner. If I ignore him, he’ll soon get fed up and go, I tell myself. I try to focus on the injured woman, who seems more than a little drunk. As I clean the blood from her face, I can feel him watching me. I have to make a conscious effort not to think about Hawke, or about what I’m going to say to him.

The lies come so easily now.

He's right, of course. I have been avoiding him.

I can hardly bear to look him in the eyes, after all the lies I’ve told.

The hours pass quickly enough; a blurred procession of coughs and fevers, crying babies, minor wounds turned into major infections by the squalid conditions of the undercity. In between dressing sores and handing out potions, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. After a while, he starts to make himself busy, fetching water and chatting to the patients.  
Most of them are refugees from Ferelden. They all know who he is - it’s a big deal round here, the fact that the champion of Kirkwall is one of them. It gives them hope.

I remember when he used to give me hope too.

Once when I walk past he’s holding a snotty faced little girl on his lap. He’s making up a story about a brave little puppy who becomes king of the Mabari. I watch as he reaches into his pocket and presses something shiny and silver into her grubby hand, squeezing her fingers tight around it. She laughs out loud, and it feels like something squeezes tight around my heart too.

I love him so much it actually hurts.

I never felt like this about anyone before; I never dared.

And now it's too late. 

It’s always dark in the tunnels beneath the city, but somehow, once you get used to it, you start to develop an instinctive awareness of time. The colours of the shadows alter subtly, and the sounds around you change with the time of day. By the time my last patients are settled, I know it's getting late. My bones ache and my eyes sting. It‘s getting difficult to focus properly.

And Hawke’s still waiting. He stands there patiently as I invent more things to do - wiping tables that are already clean, counting bags of food, and arranging the potion bottles so they all face the same way on the shelf. I should have remembered how determined he can be, when it’s something that matters to him.

I’m just about to give up and put out the lantern that hangs by the front door, when the screaming starts.

It’s not even a scream really - It’s more like a howl, an animal keen of agony that sends a surge of adrenaline shooting through me, making my heart race. The sound grows louder, echoing eerily through the passages, and it quickly becomes apparent that whoever‘s making that awful noise is heading towards us.

“Maker...” Hawke is at my side, his face greenish and ghostly in the dim light.

“It’s alright,“ I try to reassure him. “If they’ve got the strength to make that much noise, they can’t be too badly hurt. It’s the quiet ones you have to worry about.”

“I hope you’re right.”

He doesn’t sound particularly convinced. I’m not convinced either - the screaming makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know i'm too exhausted to deal with anything complicated, but at the same time, I can’t help the guilty surge of relief that I’ve been given another chance to put off being alone with Hawke.

As we stand there waiting, two terrified looking young boys appear at the top of the steps outside the clinic. They’re carrying a third between them, tied to an improvised stretcher. He’s still screaming.  
“Please help him, Messere,” one of the boys, a skinny little thing with tangled red hair, begs. “He got bit by a spider. We didn’t know what to do, but you helped Martin's uncle when he broke his leg, so we brought him here…”

"I'll do what i can," I assure them. Together, we carry their friend inside and lift him onto one of the tables. He’s jerking and writhing around so much that I can’t get a proper look at him.

“Lucas, hold him still for me, can you? "

Hawke still looks pale, but he nods and presses the boy’s shoulders back against the surface of the table. His companions have collapsed into a sweaty, panting heap against the wall.

“There aren’t any spiders in the city - at least, not the sort that could do this. Where did this happen?”

“We were up in the hills around Sundermount, looking for herbs to sell,"one of them says. "There was a cave. We thought there might be something valuable in there; treasure, like in the stories.” He starts to cry. "He'll be alright, won't he?"

It must have taken them hours to carry him all this way. Long enough for the venom to spread through his entire body. He’s probably too far gone.

Maker, I wish he'd stop screaming, let me think...

I realise, with a little jolt of surprise, that I’m staring distractedly at Hawke’s arms as he holds the boy down. He has incredibly muscular arms and shoulders - I didn’t like them at first; I thought they made him look like a peasant, a farm labourer. The first time I saw him in battle, though, I understood - he swings his staff like a weapon, just as likely to smash his enemies on the head with it as to use it cast spells.

And there’s a lot to be said for a strong pair of arms around you in the dark.

“…Anders?”

Startled, I look up into Hawke’s eyes.

“Can you help him?”

“I’m not sure..."

The belief in those warm brown eyes cuts me to the bone. I'm almost tempted not to try - to let him see that i'm not the man he thinks i am. But I spent years training as a spirit healer in the circle, and I‘ve had plenty of chance to practice my skills since I came to Kirkwall. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really been any good at. I can't let the lad suffer, just to prove a point to Hawke.

I start to remove the torn shirt the boy’s friends have wrapped around his leg. As I unwind the stiff fabric, foul smelling clots of congealed brownish-black blood come away on it. As soon as they're gone, fresh blood starts to pulse out, spraying up, sickeningly warm, into my face.

The boy manages one last ragged cry, and then goes mercifully silent.

Spider bites are foul things. The boy’s leg, or what’s left of it, is a mess. It's raw meat, Jagged splinters of bone sticking out through shredded flesh and muscle. Beneath the knee, the leg seems held on by grim determination alone.  
Potions and poultices are going to be useless. Even amputation wouldn't be enough - the poison is in his blood. I’m already so far beyond exhaustion that it takes everything I’ve got just to keep upright, but I can‘t just watch him die without trying.  
My arms tremble as I apply pressure to the wound.

Hawke is looking at me.

“Anders?”

I nod wearily. “Fetch me some Lyrium potions from the back room.” I say.” I’ll do what i can.”

The bittersweet taste of Lyrium dries my mouth. It fills me with pure light, like stars, like liquid diamonds. My nerves jump and twitch as I feel the energy, static electricity crawling across my skin. The hairs on my arms stand up, as i reach into the Fade.

The healing forces gather in my hands, and i flex my fingers, channeling it, forming orbs of light. I feel it flow through me as i focus on the unconscious boy’s leg. Everything else fades into the background. I can feel the venom, dark and rotting in his blood, and i draw it out of him, almost gagging at the feel of it against my mind. I trace my fingertips along the fractured bones, not touching, but still _feeling_ the shredded veins, the nerves and tendons, joining the torn edges together, cauterizing them with soft healing fire. At one point, I have to stop, breathless and clutching dizzily onto the edge of the table for support, and Lucas is there, holding me, brushing the hair back from my face and pressing the little bottle to my lips again until I feel strong enough to carry on.

Finally, after what feels like hours, I run my hands over the raw new flesh, knitting it together, smoothing it out beneath the surface of my palms.

He’ll have a hell of a scar. Another crippled Darktown beggar, poor sod, but at least he's not dead.

When I step away from him, all the strength drains out of me like a cold wave washing through my body. I stumble back against the wall, my head spinning, a ringing sound in my ears. Everything‘s going dark around the edges. For a few seconds, I’m afraid I might vomit.

Then Hawke’s arms are around me.

Maker...

Even now, like this, his touch undoes me.

“I’m alright." My hands on his chest, on the top of his arms, trying, feebly, to push him away.

“You’re dead on your feet, man!”

“I just need a minute...” i insist. But my legs are like bits of string. I’m too tired to argue, too tired to speak or even think coherently.

The world fades to grey around me, and he’s the only thing that’s still there.

*****

At first, I always knew which thoughts and feelings belonged to Justice, and which ones were my own.

It’s not that simple now.

Most of the time, it’s hard to tell where my thoughts end and his begin. It’s like trying to untangle a ball of thread, when your fingers are slippery and you can‘t get a grip.

The only time I really know that I‘m still me, is when I’m with Hawke.

Justice doesn’t approve of Hawke. He thinks he’s a distraction; that he makes me weak, confuses me.

He allows it, because Hawke is useful to him, but he says there are more important things than love.

When I’m with Hawke he tends to keep out of the way, but I’m aware of his disapproval, his disappointment. I can feel it.

It’s something I hold on to.

It reminds me of who I was.

He’ll think I’m weak now, for allowing this. Sitting here, numb and compliant, trembling with exhaustion, while Lucas cleans the blood from my face and hands.

I don’t really remember how we got back to the estate. I hope he didn’t have to carry me. Things are already bad enough, without being lumped around like a fainting maiden by my heroic boyfriend. I’d never hear the end of that one.

Hawke‘s removing my coat now, struggling a bit with the various straps and laces. He’s never very patient with things like that - he swears under his breath, his big fingers all thumbs. Normally I’d laugh, and help him; wanting those hands on me.

I close my eyes and try not to think about him undressing me.

He manages to get me out of my coat, and I feel oddly vulnerable without it; missing a protective layer. Now there’s only the thin fabric of my shirt between his hands and my skin, and I can feel the warmth of his palms as he rests them on my cold shoulders.

“You’ve got so thin, love…”

“I forget to eat sometimes. There’s always so much to do...”

So much to do, before it all slips away. Sometimes, i'm so focused on it that i forget what it means. I think he makes me forget, because if i didn't, the pain would have me screaming. 

“You should let me look after you," Lucas says.

My eyes start to sting, and before I realise what’s happening, the tears are spilling down my face and onto my shirt to form a cold, wet, patch around my heart. And then he’s kneeling in front of me, looking right into my eyes, and the concern on his face chokes the breath from my lungs.

“Anders, love, tell me what’s happening,” he pleads.

“I can’t…”

“ But I can help you.”

"You can't." I shake my head pathetically. If I tell him, he’ll try to stop me. I couldn't... Justice would never allow it.

And then his arms are around me, holding me close, and I’m too weak to fight it.  
It feels so good to be held like this again. I lean against him and bury my wet face against his neck. His hair is in my eyes and mouth, and it smells of smoke and outdoors, and the expensive sandalwood stuff he puts in his bathwater. I wish we could stay like this forever.

But there‘s no forever left.

It will all be over soon, i tell myself. I try not to think about after. Better to assume there won’t an after, for me. I can accept that. I’d rather be dead than see him look at me with hatred, or pity, in his eyes.

I’m so tired. I’m too tired to think about anything, really - Just the smell of him, and the reality of his body pressed up close against mine. That’s enough, for now.

And maybe I could sleep, like this; in his arms.

*****

 

My heart slams hard against my ribcage, waking me violently.

It feels like a blow from a clenched fist. There’s a sick, panicky sensation in my guts. Cold sweat trickles down my neck.

I’m getting almost used to it; the fear, the feeling of wanting to run.

I’m frightened all the time now.

Moonlight angles in through a gap between the curtains, painting the familiar room in muted shades of grey. I lay very still, trying to make myself breathe slowly and calmly, while my heartbeat steadies and things gradually start to take on their proper shapes.

I’m in Hawke’s bed. _Our_ bed, where I always felt so safe. I remember how I used to pull the heavy silk curtains closed around us, and try to pretend that nothing else existed.

Just me and Hawke, clinging to each other in the dark.

Hes asleep beside me, stretched out on his back, the fingers of one hand curled loosely around mine, as if he held my hand while we slept. His chestnut hair looks almost black in the moonlight - a halo of dark feathers spread out around his head.

Asleep, he looks younger than he really is. Even after all these years, after everything he’s been through, he still has a sort of innocence about him. He does his best to hide it behind stupid jokes and sarcasm, and maybe I’m the only person who really sees it, these days, but it’s one of the things I treasure most about him.

He always tries, at least, to do the right thing.

And this is all wrong. I know I should go, before he wakes up, but it’s so long since I allowed myself the luxury of just looking at him like this.

My Lucas.

My love.

My shining light.

His lips are parted slightly, and I lean closer, remembering the feel of them against my skin. I want to breathe him in. I want to touch him, and when I go there will be tiny, invisible traces of him on my fingertips, and I can take him with me.

His eyes flicker open. Dark eyes, soft and warm as velvet.  
“Hello,” he whispers, and he smiles, and I can’t help smiling back, even though it feels like my face is breaking. He reaches up to push back a strand of hair that’s fallen across my face, and then his hand is on the back of my head, and he pulls me, gently, but firmly, towards him, until our lips meet.

His mouth tastes faintly of Lyrium, and the shivery quicksilver touch of the fade. His hand tangles itself in my hair, pulling me towards him more urgently, and he presses the whole length of his body against mine, and I know it’s selfish, but I need him so much, just this one last time before everything ends.

I push him back against the pillow to kiss his throat, and he lets out a soft, breathy little groan that I feel like an electric shock through my chest and stomach, and down into my balls. Moonlight picks out the scars across his chest in silver, and I trace them with the tip of my tongue, feeling the faint crackle and hum of magic beneath his skin.

“Anders…”

I feel the callouses on his palms as he grips my shoulders, and then somehow he shifts and I’m suddenly beneath him, pinned to the bed by the weight of him. His hips grind down against mine and I can feel his hard cock pressing against my belly.

“You never come home," he says. "I thought you didn’t want me any more.” His voice is low and deep and burning with need, and I feel his breath warm against my lips. I kiss the stubble on his face.

“I’ll never stop wanting you."

“Do you want me now?” He reaches down and strokes his fingers lightly across the front of my trousers, where my cock strains hard and aching against the constricting fabric.

“More than anything”, I whisper, and the desperation in my own voice frightens me. And then we’re kissing again, his lips hot and wet against mine, his tongue filling my mouth while he pulls my clothes down roughly over my hips and curls his fingers around my cock. I arch against him, thrusting into the heat of his hand, parting my legs so that his weight sinks down onto me even more.

I want to feel crushed beneath him.

I work my hand between us, reaching for his cock, stroking it, sliding my thumb gently across the head, and he moans again. I feel his teeth against my neck.

And just for a few minutes, nothing else matters. Nothing else is real - not Justice, or the Templars, or the awful thing i know I’m still going to do. The weight of the past, my aching heart. Everything fades into the background, until there’s only his lips, and the heat of his hands against my skin, and the sensation of his body pushing into mine as we rock against each other.

This is all there is. Me and Hawke, clinging together in the dark.

*****

In battle, Hawke has a tendency to run headlong into the action, without a thought for his own safety. It terrified me at first, but over the years I developed my own way of protecting him. Whatever else is going on, I always know instinctively exactly where he is, and what he’s doing. I keep my distance, and if he’s surrounded by enemies, I’ll use everything I can to keep them back. If he’s hurt, I’m ready with a healing spell almost before he notices.

I don’t think he’s even aware of it, most of the time, but for years now I’ve made it my job to look out for him.

And now I’m about to break his heart, and bring his whole world crashing down around him.

Maybe they're right when they call me an abomination.

It’s almost daylight now. There’s a narrow ribbon of sky visible through the gap in the curtains, and it’s beautiful - pearl grey, candy-striped with ragged, pink edged clouds. Lucas is laying sleepily in my arms with his head against my shoulder, and somewhere outside there’s a blackbird singing. I stroke my lover’s face. I kiss his head and breathe in the scent of his hair, and wish there was a way of capturing all this and keeping it with me, like a charm against what waits ahead.

“Promise me something,” I say.

“Depends what,” he mumbles. "Is this where you suggest a threesome with Isabela?"

“Please, Lucas...”

He’s doing that thing he does with other people; hiding his feelings behind a defensive wall, a smokescreen of smart-arse remarks. I understand exactly why he does it, because in the past, before Justice, I used to do exactly the same thing. But there’s no time now. I take his face between my hands and kiss him deeply, bruising and desperate, almost violently, and it reminds me of our first kiss all those years ago. When it’s over, we’re both breathless. But it's over far too soon.

“Whatever happens, promise me you’ll never doubt that I love you.”

He pulls himself out of my embrace, his dark eyes glittering with tears he refuses to let fall, and suddenly he looks very vulnerable. It hits me then, that he knows I’ve lied to him. He knows I’ve misled him and kept my secrets from him. He knows, and he's deathly afraid. But he’s decided to trust me.

“There’s nothing you could do that would ever make me doubt you,” he says.

I’m not sure if my heart bursts then, or if it breaks.

 

Justice is wrong.

Hawke doesn’t make me weak. He gives me strength.

Hawke’s love gives me the courage to imagine a world that’s worthy of him; a world where people like us can love without fear.

Justice is wrong about that too. Nothing is more important than love.

We reach out; we cling together through the dark. It’s all we have, in the end. 

It's all there is.

I touch my beloved’s face, and just for a moment, the tips of my fingers glow, faintly, almost imperceptibly, blue, in the early morning light.


End file.
